#Poetry ‘The Pauper Poet’ by Fiza Pathan

The Pauper Poet

By Fiza Pathan

I have not sold a single piece of poetry to the impoverished.

For they do not comprehend art-who can think of the creative goddess,

When one is in need of food, clothing and shelter.

I too am poor and so I spend my days selling my verses for a rupee.

I sit near the station and watch the trains passing by;

And it is at this point of time when I weep,

Because of the unfairness of the globalized world.

The rich lead luxurious lives while the poor like me,

Die like stray dogs and rats on the road.

Yet I write my poetry because it gives me pleasure,

And it prevents me from philosophizing

I’m not a descendant or lover of Socrates.

I sit with lepers and the deformed and the forgotten ones of society. 

I eat with them and cleanse their wounds as they

Dig into dustbins to get a scrap of bread to devour.

I then read out my poor verses to them and they

Sympathize with me while I empathize with them.

I study with the destitute and drink their bitter alcohol

To wash away the brine from my eyes as I see them

Picking the fleas from their hair.

Pauperism is my business and business is good.

Beggars are naked and they flock all over the city

Where I live, waiting for a better dawn.

I’m hungry and in need

Of a loaf of bread to eat even if, it is stale.

Who however will feed the gentle poet?

Who will feed the pauper poet?

Copyright © 2014 by Fiza Pathan

Image coutesy: Google images